t tells me, is an eager co-operation, a brave
approval, a generous belief in His goodness and His justice; and this I
cannot give, and it is He that has made me unable to give it. The wound
may heal, the dull pain may die away, I may forget, the child may
become a golden memory--but I cannot again believe that this is the
surrender God desires. What I think He must desire, is that I should
love the child, miss him as bitterly as ever, feel my day darkened by
his loss, and yet turn to Him gratefully and bravely in perfect love
and trust. It may be that I may be drawn closer to those whom I love,
but the loss must still remain irreparable, because I might have
learned to love my dear ones better through Alec's presence, and not
through his absence. It is His will, I do not doubt it; but I cannot
see the goodness or the justice of the act, and I will not pretend to
myself that I acquiesce.

September 25, 1889.

Yesterday was a warm, delicious, soft day, full of a gentle languor,
the air balmy and sweet, the sunshine like the purest gold; we sate out
all the morning under the cliff, in the warm dry sand. To the right and
left of us lay the blue bay, the waves breaking with short, crisp
sparkles on the shore. We saw headland after headland sinking into the
haze; a few fishing-boats moved slowly about, and far down on the
horizon we watched the smoke of a great ocean-steamer. We talked, Maud
and I, for the first time, I think, without reserve, without
bitterness, almost without grief, of Alec. What sustains her is the
certainty that he is as he was, somewhere, far off, as brave and loving
as ever, waiting for us, but waiting with a perfect understanding and
knowledge of why we are separated. She dreams of him thus, looking down
upon her, and seeming, in her dream, to wonder what there can be to
grieve about. I suppose that a mother has a sense of oneness with a
child that a father cannot have. It is a deep and marvellous faith, an
intuition that transcends all reason, a radiant certainty. I cannot
attain to it. But in the warmth and light of her belief, I grew to feel
that at least there was some explanation of it all. Not by chance is
the dear gift sent us, not by chance do we learn to love it, not by
chance is it rent from us. Lying thus, talking softly, in so gracious a
world, a world that satisfied every craving of the senses, I came to
realise that the Father must wish us well, and that if the shadow fell
upon our